


Severed At The Spine

by orphan_account



Category: Hotline Miami, Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, hallucination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:36:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just a little drabble about Jacket (who's name I headcanon as Richard Ortega)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Severed At The Spine

"I think I know what you want. Don't worry about paying, buddy. It's on the house."

It was a phrase Richard was hearing quite often lately, though he didn't mind. He rarely carried cash on him anymore, and he was sure all of his cards were drained dry. He blinked slowly at the orange haired man before him as he mixed a colorful blue drink, pouring it into a cute glass with a little pink umbrella in it. He grunted his thanks, nodding his head once before he downed the drink, and set the glass on the counter.

Richard stood there, examining the man, taking him in his waistcoat and neatly tied back ponytail. He looked familiar. He looked like the man who ran every other store, but that didn't matter. Without saying a word, he turned, adjusted his varsity jacket, and left the bar. His DeLorean was parked outside, and he was quick to get inside, playing soft music as he drove to his apartment. It was surprisingly peaceful, considering he spent the evening murdering white-suited Russians. It honestly was all a blur to Richard. Nothing made sense anymore, except for the soft voices crooning on his answering machine, telling him cryptically where to go, who to kill.

He swallowed thickly as he pulled into the carport, parked his vehicle, and left the car. His motions seemed sluggish, lethargic, like he was swimming in bong water. Richard cleared his throat, scrubbed at his eyes, and tried to make the way up the stairs to his home. It took nearly ten minutes to ascend the two flights- it felt like weights had been tied to Richard's arms and legs and were holding him down viciously. The man felt queasy, sick to his stomach and with a pounding headache. The words 'on the house' repeated in his mind, but he wasn't quite sure why. 

He finally made it past the last steps, opening the door to his home quietly and stepping inside with a certain grace that most men his size lacked. He passed by his girlfriend, who was smoking a cigarette. Richard carefully plucked the smoking thing from her two fingers, and pressed it to his lips. Taking a drag, he offered a tiny smile, and a soft laugh as smoke filtered out of his nostrils and danced towards the ceiling. She smiled and laughed as well, just as gently taking the cigarette back, and moved towards the kitchen to prepare dinner. Richard went to his bedroom, and collapsed on his bed, only managing to kick off his sneakers and shuck off his socks before falling asleep.

That night he dreamed of exploding power plants, and hot, hot shrapnel that cut deep into his chest.


End file.
